E(lust) 117, on the way to heaven

Photo courtesy of Master’s Eye

Welcome to Elust 117

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #118? Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

A dominant presence

He Gripped Her Hand and Centered Her

Being alone together.

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

What the fig?

Mind and body

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

O! or, errr… NO!: Orgasm Control in an F/m Dynamic

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Fantasies Never Let You Down
My First Love
New Fun with Old Friends
Sometimes coming joint second
emotional disconnection, sex and loneliness
People Don’t Talk about This Sh!t

Erotic Fiction

Waking the Fallen
Daisy
opera seria
Catch the Catcher
Club Dress Extended
Dreams … (the Second : Arabian Nights)
The orgasmic arch

Erotic Non-Fiction

The Five Senses of Sex
A public beating
Rope Dreams

Poetry

-01.04.19_00:22-

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Primal Regression and Submission
14 Qualities of a “Good” Dominant
Balance in F/m voices

Events

Do I want you to hold my hand?

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Sex in Class
That’s My Kink – All Hail The Nipple Clit

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Why I’m not smiling for IWD

Elust

Wicked Wednesday: The Shop-Lifter’s Mother

The following afternoon Mrs O’Donnell, mother of my student Tara O’Donnell, was expected at one-thirty. She believed her daughter had been shoplifting, and she hade agreed to bring me the bag of clothes she’d found under her daughter’s bed.

Mrs O’Donnell turned out to be an older version of her daughter, with the same slightly wide mouth, and California straight blonde hair parted in the middle. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen when she’d had Tara, because she couldn’t be older than her thirty-four now.

Actually, she looked much younger than that. She’d dressed for this meeting in a pale blouse and maroon skirt that must once have been expensive, but both garments were several years old. On the phone she’d mentioned that she did shift work. I guessed that she spent most of her income on her daughter’s education.   

She’d arrived, flustered and apologetic, about fifteen minutes late. It occurred to be that she was the only woman I was likely to see that week who wouldn’t get a spanking for being that late. So I’d smiled pleasantly, partly because of that ridiculous thought, and welcomed her in, accepting from her the bag of clothes that would be the evidence against her daughter.

“Sit down please, Mrs O’Donnell. The armchair.”

“Thank you. And it’s Claire.” She sat and crossed her legs. She had nice legs.

“Claire. Excuse me a moment.” I looked at the collection of clothes. They all still had their labels, and the little sticky-paper price tag. It suggested shop-lifting, but it wasn’t conclusive evidence. Tara could have bought them an simply decided they weren’t right, and be intending to take them back. I’d have to get her to admit to the shop-lifting before I could take action. I buzzed Maddie, and she arrived in a few seconds.

The two women looked at each other. I said, “Claire O’Donnell, Maddie Wizniewski. Maddie, can you take these clothes and lay them and flat, one by one, and take a photograph. Also taking a photo of the label and price on each garment. And then bring them back.”

“Yes, Mr Beecham.” Maddie didn’t really have trouble stopping herself from calling me Master in front of people. It was a problem she had only when she wanted to. She picked up the clothes and left.

I said, “Claire. This is a troubling situation, as you know. But there are two things you should know right now. First, the school will handle this from now on. Both the investigation, and the disciplinary side if it turns out that these were stolen. I’m afraid I agree with you that they were. Tara probably doesn’t have the money for those clothes. And if a boyfriend had bought them for her she’d have taken the tags off and worn them for him. So I’ll expect that we will find they were stolen, and not more than a few days ago.”

Claire looked at me, biting her lip, her eyes nervous. She remembered what it was like to be in trouble in a headmaster’s office. In fact she was still afraid of this headmaster. Of me. I wondered why.  

I continued, “Second, that the police and courts will not be involved. Tara will get a very painful lesson, but she won’t get a criminal record. And not a fine, that would only have to be paid by you.”

Claire nodded. “What would you do?”

 

 

 

 

Masturbation Monday: Tale of the Tawse Part 2: 1

The plane slid wildly across the air like spit on a frypan, buffeted by winds that never let up although they seemed to change direction every few seconds. Other passengers had noticed that we were flying level just above the water, and the wings were only metres – not many of them – from jagged rocks emerging from the seashore. Some of those passengers were crying, and the most irritating were praying loudly.

They were irritating because they were scaring the little girl sitting next to me. Her name was Melinda, and she’d been happy to humor an adult by telling him about dinosaurs, how annoying her best friend Fergie was being, how Jacob Sartorius used to be so cool, but now he was… old.

She was also an expert on clouds: cumulus is lovely, and did I know how to tell cirrus from stratus?

Her mother wasn’t in this conversation; she’d self-medicated with little bottles of whisky and she was currently drooling onto the window. It wasn’t her best look, though it meant her ass, in tight blue jeans, was pointing in my direction. Still, she’d been noticeably pretty, with dark curly hair, when she’d been conscious.

So I was the adult looking after Melinda, and she’d realised, from the praying nutters that many of the adults were losing the plot. Children find that scary.

So I lied: “This is great! It’s like a roller-coaster, only it’s FREE!” 

Melinda wasn’t quite convinced, so I told her that the point of the game was to raise your fist and shout “Whooo!” every time the plane skidded across the harbour. I demonstrated. A game where an adult says you’re allowed to make silly noises is a good game, so Melinda was probably the most cheerful passenger every time she released a triumphant “Whooo!”

I wasn’t quite as sure as Melinda now was that we weren’t all going to die, though I figured the pilot must have landed in Wellington before. Still, a man has his responsibilities, and my fist-pumping “Whooo” was easily the second most cheerful sound. 

When the plane reaches the shore it crosses a road, flies just over an embankment of maybe eight metres, and finds itself level with the runway. Our plane’s tyres hit the ground with a scream, and jolted Melinda’s mom awake. She looked at me suspiciously. Men who play with little girls don’t get a good press.

She frowned, but it was a thinking kind, not the angry one. Melinda was the right kind of happy, so I must be ok. She took the water I held out to her. “Thanks.”

It was a New Zealand accent. I’d picked her as American. 

We were taxiing to the airport, no longer the wind’s toy though it was still blowing. I said, “Welcome home.”

She looked embarrassed. She’d neglected her maternal duties. And our conversation was still subject to passenger noises. The woman in the row ahead of us was still ululating prayers at the top of her voice, and Melinda’s mom poked her from behind, in the shoulder.. The woman looked back at her, incredulously indignant. “I’m thanking the Lord!” She was a fellow American. 

“Then could you do it quieter, please? I’ve got a fuck of a hangover and you, you’re really not helping.” 

So I started to learn things about New Zealand compared to US culture. Praying woman dropped to a mutter, keeping it between her and her lord.

Melinda’s mom looked back at me. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m terrible in airplanes. Flying scares me shitless. Seriously. Terrified. I had to get pissed, or I wouldn’t have have been able to stay on board. Seriously. These things have doors, and I’d have been out one of them.”

“Pissed? You had to get angry to stay aboard?”

“Ah. Yank boy. Down here it means drunk. Hey, thanks for keeping Melinda sane. It was my job and I fucked it up. My name’s Ngaire, by the way.” 

She put out her hand. I took it and we looked at each other. She was pretty again. I said, “Freddie.” 

Sinful Sunday: Quite well flogged, thank you

There’s nothing more relaxing, I’m told, than lying over a pile of pillows after a good flogging. 

And nothing more relaxed than that submissive, if the Dom has done her or his work right: not too heavy, but above all not too light. 

What stayed in my mind most, though giving this flogging was a pleasure, was remembering having growled “you stay in place” a couple of times, and being obeyed. 

In those moments we know who and how we are. The gift of pain, and the gifts of authority and submission. 

I did well, I think, and she had done well too. I told her so. No wonder she’s blushing. 

Model and star: The lovely Zoë.

 

 

Research: A history of BDSM literature

This is the first of a longish series, based on my Eroticon 2019 presentation. 

 

It is a history of BDSM literature, taking in nearly 50,000 years of human art and history. One of my key points is that BDSM didn’t come down with Sade (who I don’t rate highly), and nor did it arrive with 50 Shades of Grey.

BDSM has been a part of human culture across an enormous time span, and our traces can be found amongst other strands, in an enormous range of cultures. 

These posts are going to be coming on Fridays, so stay tuned!

Wicked Wednesday: Her breath is at my discretion

“Good girl,” I said, when Maddie had come, and calmed.

I smacked her bottom affectionately as I walked into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine. When I returned I tipped her back onto her ass, so her head was the highest part of her body, and she shuffled forward to take up her position between my knees.

I removed her gag, and turned her vibrator off for the time being. Still hogtied, she lowered her mouth onto my cock. Once I was held wetly, warmly in Maddie’s mouth, and she had closed her eyes to concentrate on following my movements, I edged forward a little to make her take me deeper. 

I pulled my belt out of its loops, running it behind her neck, holding the ends in my hands. Then I pulled her in close so my cock filled her and there was no gasping for breath, only the build-up of saliva that spilled wen I relaxed the tension and she could move her head back and gasp a breath.

She was never really uncomfortable, because I generally allowed her a breath every thirty seconds or so, but she felt the loss of control deeply, throughout her body. It moved her that the moments when she could snatch a breath were at my discretion and not hers. Details always affected her.

The relationship between master and slave hangs on the details, a long sequence of details, and the Master had best pay close attention to them, because his slave will.

Eventually she brought me to orgasm, swallowing as I came. I finished my glass while Maddie, who would have no wine, licked and sucked at my cock. When I was soft, and cleaned by her tongue, I removed the vibrator and untied her.

I pulled Maddie over my lap and spanked her long and hard, as a reward, until she wriggled in the way that said she was close to coming, and she wanted me to know that. I let my hand stray between her buttocks and stroke her cunt, until she gurgled, struggled and then came again. 

Usually Maddie had things to say after a spanking-and-orgasm, but that night she was simply affectionate and silent, as I helped her turn around so she sat on my lap, held in my arms, having her hair and brow kissed.  

At last we showered together, and afterwards I knelt and put soothing lotion on her knees. And we went to bed. Maddie lay on her side, her ass pressed against me, in case I woke up wanting it. I expected I would. I put my arm over her and cupped a breast in my hand. She muttered something incoherent, sometimes, while she slept.

 

 

Masturbation Monday: Watch while we drink your champagne

Jayavardhini looked down at him. “You’re a good man. You bruised my arse. And you’re sweet anyway.”

Philip looked at Chetana. He seemed unsure of himself, now he was spent. “My love, are you ok?”

“My sweetheart, sweet silly man, I wouldn’t know how to be unhappy. The two people I love most finding each other too. And all of us in bed together. And you fucked me so nicely. And then you made sure I got off even though you were fucking my Jayavardhini. Don’t you dare feel bad. I feel… wonderful. My heart feels so good. Full.”

“Well, I love you. Don’t you ever forget it.”

Chetana kissed his nose, but he turned to Jayaverdhini, “But you, I think I’ll keep your ass bruised from now on. Permanently.”

“You’re on. Can I call you my man now? Can you call me your girl? Like Chetana?”

Philip looked again at Chetana, and Jayavardhini didn’t see the answer that passed between them, but he said, “If you want me, then I’m your man.”

“What did you say before? That you’re obtuse? Of course I want you. It’s not just that I loved fucking you, though I did. It’s that you’re decent. And loving. And you bruise my arse.”

“Your ass looks too good, bruised. Of course I’ll keep it that way.”

She rubbed her current bruises appreciatively.

But Philip had turned serious. “Jayavardhini, I love Chetana. I’m completely in love with Chetana. I would live and die for her. Kill for her, given no choice.”

Jayavardhini said, “Well, of course I know that. But-“

“But you’re loveable too. It’s a bit early for me to make more declarations than that. Give me time. But yes, you’re my girl too. You’re… mine. I’m sure of that.”

Chetana drew them closer. “Then we’re some sort of family. Worth celebrating. I’m so going to miss champagne.”

Jayavardhini grinned, a woman who knew a trick they didn’t. “Not quite yet you’re not. You two were all idealistic about taking only things we can replicate when we arrive. I love that. Respect it, anyway. But me, I have bottles in my luggage.”

“You’re a rule-breaking brat,” Philip said. “You really do need me to keep your ass bruised.”

“I do,” Jayavardhini said, complacently. “I can’t get the champagne below room temperature, but the next time we’re in this bed together, we will toast each other. And darling,” she leaned across Philip to kiss Chetana’s right breast, “Thank you, for the use of your man.”

Philip smacked her arse, as she’d hoped he would. “I think, when you bring the champagne, I’m going to tie your wrists to the roof. While Chetana and I fuck. And drink all your champagne.”

Jayavardhini looked, in mock appeal, to Chetana, who ignored her and said to Philip, “Quite right, my love.” 

Jayavardhini didn’t bother to pretend to believe them. She kissed both of them, accepting their caresses. She rubbed her ass against Philip’s cock, hoping for renewed signs of life. 

But he was sated for a time, and so were they. They rolled over in a bed that rocked gently under them, and piled sweatily together, lying on their backs, their arms and legs mingled.

[The end]

 

Note

I’m leaving them there and happy for now. Next week I’m on to The Tale of the Tawse, Volume 2.

 

Sinful Sunday: Wild justice


Revenge is a kind of wild justice, but not all wild justice is revenge.

Generally, when I’m laying on the cane for disciplinary purposes, I like to make the cane stripes straight, close but not overlapping, and neat. That seems to go with the word, “discipline”. 

But on this occasion the girl Arethusa was being punished for chaotic behaviour. I won’t say what it was, but it was the general equivalent of getting drunk at a party and screaming abuse at her best friend, before kissing said friend and insisting that she loved her, then throwing up on her. It was that level of public chaos. 

So I deliberately laid on the strokes from many different directions. It wasn’t really chaotic, but it was as chaotic as I get. I never caned her in quite that way again, because chaos wasn’t really something she perpetrated often. But I just love the marks that caning left.


Share our Shit Saturday: Eroticon special!

This post is several weeks overdue. But I’ve been travelling, and up to now I haven’t really had any time to write anything about Eroticon. 

Also, it was kind of overwhelming, not only because I was presenting one session, but because there was just so much happening and so many lovely warm people to meet. It takes me a while to incorporate new experience. Usually about five years, but I can see that I’ll have to be a bit more timely for Eroticon 2019.

Also, bits of it went in a blur, because I was getting ready for, or recovering from, my session, and there are meetings I must have had that I don’t remember. For example, I wanted to meet LittleSwitchBitch, and I find it hard to believe that I missed that, but the fact is that if I did I managed to lose the memory of it. So I’m just going to have to plead strung-out-ness, for managing not to get that meeting, or for blurring it in my mind. 

I really am sorry! 

Anyway, I want to highlight some people I know I met, and some people I know I must have, or else I’m an idiot for failing to rush across the room and say, “Hi!”

So… on that basis, my Share our shit Saturday, Eroticon edition, looks like this: 

Molly

Here’s the eminently civilised Molly, unleashing her inner wildness: 

Wildness

Here’s the unspeakably sexy Girl on the Net writing about a topic I’ve long been interested in: how do we kinky people know, when we meet another kinky person? Mostly we’re keeping it out of sight, so what are the signs we recognise?

How did you know I was kinky?

And sub-bee, writing about good times of day to have sex:

Asleep on the job

And Marie Rebelle, on practical bedroom arrangements:

https://rebelsnotes.com/2019/04/sleeping/

 

I was always going to include a picture of LittleSwitchBitch’s ass, because we should make the world as good as we can: 

Crave – SinfulSunday/FebPhotoFest

 

And Bibulous One, a thoughtful chap, writes here about what we know of other people’s orgasms:

http://painaspleasure.com/2019/03/04/come-on/

 

And that will have to do, for today. But check these out!

Wicked Wednesday: Actually, that’s what the dog whip is for

Late that night Maddie struggled on my carpet. She was gagged, and a vibrator buzzed happily in her pussy. She was a pyramid, with her buttocks high, her knees, face and breasts pressed onto the carpet. Her wrists were bound, firmly, to her ankles.

I watched her from my seat, pretending to read a book. Every so often, and unpredictably, I adjusted the intensity of her vibrator, using the box that lay on the table beside me. Maddie was in constant movement. She would have been restless even if it weren’t for that pleasuring, tormenting vibrator: there is simply no comfortable position when you are hog-tied in that fashion.

She shifted, endlessly, her weight from one knee to the other, sometimes taking more weight on her upper body to give her knees a rest. Her inner thighs shone wetly from the fluids from her aroused pussy, and the carpet below her face was wet from the drool escaping from her gapped mouth.

I said, “Come for me, Maddie.”

She sobbed with relief. Then I said, “You have thirty seconds.”

Her buttocks clenched, and her whole body shook, desperate to obey within the deadline. But Maddie is always aware of deadlines, of the seconds passing, and the distraction means she almost never makes it in time.

At thirty seconds I said, “Stop!”

A muffled sound of despair emerged around the gag. She watched my feet as I stood up and went to get my belt, which lay on the table after earlier use that evening. “Oh, Maddie,” I said.

I applied the belt six times to the backs of her legs, taking my time. The leather was loud across her flesh, but she took it is near-silence. She fought to keep herself still and presented for the strokes. Then I strapped her harder across her bottom, and suddenly she was all motion and muffled yelps.

I said, “Now! Thirty seconds, or I’ll use the dogwhip.”

The dogwhip is a small, single-tail lash. Maddie had seen it but not yet experienced it. She’d been extraordinarily good, and careful, whenever I mentioned it. 

I knew from her face when I’d allowed her to touch the slender, pleated-leather whip that it was the implement she most feared.

But she’d been close to orgasm before, and her pain, her helpless, bound status, the vibrator and her humiliation all worked their sexual magic: her eyes closed tightly, then opened wide, at twenty seconds, and her body shook convulsively.

Commencing at twenty-two seconds. I said, “Oh Maddie love. See, you can be a good girl.”

For tonight the dogwhip would stay coiled on its satin pillow.